


Thus Spoke Murgatroyd

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [230]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 07:12:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17824250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Q has a thought. Bond is more than game.





	Thus Spoke Murgatroyd

**Author's Note:**

> Struggling with the rating; the M is for talk, if that helps.

Q tied the last knot and then found himself frozen, his fingers still tucked against Bond’s. He closed his eyes and wobbled a bit, carpet digging into his knees. “James,” he said.

“Hmmm?”

“Are you sure you’re alright with this?”

Bond chuckled. He sounded remarkably relaxed, Q thought, for a man lashed to a kitchen chair on a Wednesday at an hour when the rest of the world--or the sensible bits of it, anyway--were long since fast asleep. Which Q should have found comforting, which he did, but still, the man’s endless reserve of calm was a bit irritating. Especially when Q’s own nerves were a swarm of crazed butterflies. “If I weren’t, Q, believe me, these sad schoolboy knots of yours would not stand a chance.” He tugged at his wrists. Q felt the soft rope stretch. “See? A shame, really. A solid yank and I’d be home free.”

Q stood and resisted the urge to smack Bond on the head, only just. “I didn’t know you were going to grade me, Scoutmaster. Let me guess, next you’re going to make me put up a tent.”

“Darling,” Bond said in that ridiculous Bond way of his, a leer half crossed with a sigh, “something tells me that once we get going, you’ll have no trouble there. None at all.”

“Tch,” Q said, fighting a smile, “dirty old man.”

“Says the person who’s just tied me up.”

“Yes, well. You did agree to it.”

Bond’s eyes were like starfire, his smirk softening into something softer, an expression that made Q’s heart feel weak. “So I did. And I’m so glad that you asked.”

Q felt his cheeks heat, felt the color peel straight down his throat. It’d taken him ages to get his courage up, to wrap his mind around the fact that this was something he wanted, and when the words had finally come, teased out of him by too much wine and the smell of Paris in springtime,

Bond had been goddamn delighted.

“Why, Q,” he’d said, raising his head, his mouth fevered and wet, “I’d have never thought you had it in you.”

“Ugh,” Q had said, turning his face to the pillow, a claw of heat at the back of his throat. “If you’re going to be impossible about it, then forget I ever said anything.”

And then Bond had been over him, pinning him to the soft plush of the bed, an unmistakable hitch in his breath. “Oh, no. Don’t you dare.”

“What?”

Bond had kissed him, then, moaned into his mouth. “You’ve put that idea in my head now,” he’d muttered, “and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you take it back.”

That’d been weeks ago--ages, it seemed--but now Queen, Country, and circumstance had conspired to give them a few nights alone and it’d seemed a shame to waste it. So now here they were, in James Bond’s flat, in the center of his living room, its austerity temporarily alleviated by the presence of one old-fashioned kitchen chair set in the center of the oriental rug--and positioned within it, lashed to it, was, somehow, the confusing, irrational, utterly irreplaceable love of Q’s life.

God, Q thought, affection knocking sabers with lust. Look at him.

He’d been looking for a while, he must have, because Bond’s face was all heat now, a snarl tied up in his scruff. He was in shirt sleeves and fine trousers (at his insistence), despite the risk the evening's activities posed; no tie, though, no shoes and no socks. His arms were lashed behind him but his legs were free, free and already, Q noted, spread wide.

“Are you just going to stare at me all evening, sweet? I believe I was promised audience participation.” Bond grinned, a flash of white teeth. “Or, oh dear, was I lured here under false pretenses?”

Q scaled his hands back through his hair. They were trembling. His heart felt as if it were trying to hurl itself out of his jumper, a dark blue cashmere that James had bought him. It clung to him in ways that made him feel self conscious, in ways that drew the attention of unfamiliar eyes, but he liked that, sometimes. Liked wearing it to the office on days when Bond was due for a briefing and watching the man fight the urge to stare at him while M blathered on and bloody well on.

“You did that on purpose,” Bond had said the first time, right after, his voice low and electric as they walked down the hallway, their eyes each fixed straight ahead. “You wore that to torture me.”

“You’re damn right.” He’d risked a look to his left, at the banked smolder that was James’ face “Worked like a charm, didn’t it?”

Bond had made a strangled sound. “I wouldn’t go so far as that.”

Q had laughed--startling three passing analysts--the tension of the last hour tumbling out. “You wouldn’t, eh?”

Then there was a hand on his elbow, a sharp, unyielding tug, and they were down a dim corridor, hidden for a moment from the light, and Bond backed him against the wall, his fingers still gripping cashmere. “Another two minutes,” he said in Q’s ear, “maybe five at the outset, and I’d have ruined both of careers.”

Q slipped his hand inside of Bond’s jacket. Felt the heat there, the pent-up catch of breath.  “Really? Do tell.”

Bond arched into the touch, hissed: “You’re damned proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Mmmm.” He rubbed his mouth against Bond’s cheek. “I’d say so.”

“Invite me over for dinner.”

“What?”

Bond growled. “Invite me over for dinner tonight so I can come ravish you or by god, I’ll have you right here.”

“Come over,” Q had said, flash fire. “Tonight. Whenever. Please.”

Eight o’clock on the dot, a knock, and then a flurry of kisses, the snap of sharp, welcome teeth. He’d kept the jumper on while they fucked.

“I’m buying you a dozen of those,” Bond had said, sated, watching Q peel it off at last. “But do be judicious about when you wear them to work, won’t you? I can’t promise I’ll always possess such reserves of decorum as I did today.”

He’d turned and peered at Bond over his shoulder. “That’s what you call decorum? You practically manhandled me.”

Bond had leaned up and kissed his back, stroked his fingers down the sweaty line of his spine. “Yes,” he murmured, “but not in front of our boss, eh? Believe me, darling: the way you looked today? That’s a triumph.”

So. What else would he have worn tonight except this?

“Q.” He could hear the question there, gently unspoken. _Are you sure?_ The reassurance: _It’s alright if you want to stop_.

He raised his head and squared his shoulders. This was his idea, after all, and a damned good one. Hell if he was going to be the one to pull back.

“Do you remember your word?”

Bond’s mouth lifted. “ _Murgatroyd_. And yours?”

“ _Zarathustra_.”

“All right then.” Bond tipped up his chin, his expression suddenly tightening, slipping into character just like that. “Do your worst, sir. Let’s see if you can make me talk.”

Q felt his shoulders settle, the low stone in his stomach sink not unpleasantly, the tenor of his heart start to rise. He could do this. He wanted to do this. It was silly and a bit of a cliche but god bless the man, James was as eager as he was.

And if it didn’t as well as he’d thought, well, they each had a way out.

He lifted his hand and cupped Bond’s cheek. Smiled a little when James tried to recoil.

“Oh, Mr. Bond,” Q said, a feather hiding in steel. “Make you talk? I think I can do more than that."  



End file.
